THE EARTHRISE DIARY (November, 2013)
Don Diespecker
© Text 2013 Don Diespecker; guest writers retain their ©
All happy
families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
Leo Tolstoy: Anna Karenina
Monologue
It’s been quite a month: a significant number of
severe storms along the coast, particularly, and on two occasions, hail. This
will hardly be news for any Diary Reader in Australia because the storms have
been almost continuous along most of the east coast for thousands of kilometers.
Readers elsewhere will perhaps nod sagely and note that Global Warming and
Climate Change are now making themselves felt everywhere on Earth. Lots of
words (happily, mostly fiction) are being written at Earthrise; son Carl
visited after returning from running the NYC Marathon (within hours, his
brother, Nick, sent links from Ottawa that enabled our seeing static views of
Carl in the race); the computer Mouse (the Mouse that prefers an Upper Case M)
suffered a setback and stopped the machine in its tracks, said difficulty was
sorted and a New Mouse installed. I began writing this Diary opening at a time
when the river was painfully low, the ‘lawn’ dry and desperate-looking and
covered with crisp brown leaves distributed by hot winds. Too much sitting at
the computer writing is not good for anyone’s health, especially mine, and I’ve
been averaging more than 2,000 words each day of fiction writing (and, yes,
drafting a novel that grows by about 15,000 words a week is a joyful
experience). Getting up and tottering about or wringing the hands or clutching
the brow is also good and healthy; gardening and mowing are excellent aides
during needed breaks and walking always helps. There are still decorative
displays of flood debris in the gardens closest to the river and instead of
wildly attacking this bizarre cleanup and finishing it (writing has priority),
I apportion the cleanup jobs as being 10-minutes, 20-minutes or 30-minutes
exercises and each one becomes a happy achievement rather than an onerous task.
Mowing is a movement meditation. The mow always begins out in the centre of Big
Lawn where the Dog’s Garden is and where Their Tree remains festooned with
debris above where they sleep the Big Sleep. Mowing begins as a circular cut
made wider and wider and becomes simply so much Ordinary Work that the mower
becomes a tireless part of the Mow.
I begin this Diary with a description of
a typical walk that coincides with the start of the storms here and the arrival
of much-needed storm rain and showers.
I remember the time I went boldly out
the front door and a snake was playfully hanging in my face and there were no
untoward eventualities other than some hectic sidestepping and back flipping
and a soaring increase to my blood pressure. I go slowly down the new front steps, looking and listening.
The local birds are singing like mad. Perhaps it’s because of the rain, the new
greenness abounding, everything moving at high revs. This is the Earthrise
spring in 2013: droughty and as dry as a chip one week, then Crash Bang Rain
and Big Hail, the next. Even the eucalypts are splitting and shedding their
barks early this year and the jacarandas too have flowered early. But it’s the
birds that are significant: they sound happy, dare I say. Why else would they
sing so melodiously? They’ve been doing that for days now, ever since the
electrical storms and the thundery showers started. There have been such heavy
showers that they broke into the ABC RN weather forecasts and even ensured
their getting a mention: “a flood watch for the Bellinger River” (this famous
river, this meandering jewel, this serpentine stream bending light; our river, my river). I duck my head and wander through beneath the house and
as I come down the track to the lawn level I see the air busy with wee flying beasties
and although I can’t be sure quite what they are, that’s unimportant. What’s
important is that they’re busy, using airspace, doing their flying thing and
probably happily so. To wonder whether flying insects are happily flying is
perhaps not a frequent practice in the local community (I’m guessing) but I do
it frequently because this is perfectly OK for storytellers and I tend to see
myself these days as a teller of stories, some of them true and even newsworthy
stories and some that are fictions inspired by being precisely where I am in
the world. Perhaps that’s also an Old Age thing? I see too that the air is
again showing many silken strands catching the light, some of them anchored, a
few drifting in the heavy morning air. These silken strands as we all know have
fashionably skinny diameters to be measured in microns yet the rising sun makes
them appear to be more than they are. I think of the anchored ones as hunting
lines: as webs trap flying insects so might single lines perhaps achieve the same
result but don’t quote me because this may merely be a fanciful notion. On the
other hand why else would a quite small insect make astonishingly strong silken
strands that must be like steel wire cables in the Small Insect World? And it’s
early enough also to see a slight river mist rising downstream in the cool wet
air. When I reach the road and can see almost clearly beyond the trees and
their canopies the sky is pale blue. I come quietly to the bridge. The road
surface is loose with broken stones (perfectly normal up here) and no matter
how lightly and carefully I walk, some vibrations apparently reach the
creatures below in the river’s shallows. When I peek over the edge of the
bridge a half meter long eel winds sinuously through the bank weeds on its way
to cover beneath the shadow of the bridge and a few meters further along a
small school of moderately sized fish, mullet I think, dart away as though my
almost silent arrival has been as loud as the vibrations of a passing truck. We
humans are excessively noisy. I’m reminded of stalking trout early or late in
the day: there is an advantage to be had when you come up behind them because
they often hang midstream in faster water: they face upstream in fast or in
white water, watching for incoming food, either in the stream or in the air and
where their environment is dynamic and noisy. Heavy storm showers have made the
river rise quickly; and it’s starting quickly again to fall so that the
concrete ford alongside and downstream of the Plain’s Crossing Bridge is
reappearing, drying, encouraging the eye to move to the water alongside where
very small fish (not the mullet that were of catchable size) are also darting
in the shallows and they’re as alert as any trout I’ve seen in colder rivers
than this one. Because I live partly in the forest the appropriate place from
where I can see straight up to the sky without trees obstructing my view is the
far-side (east) approach. There is clear blue sky, at least for a while. I
stroll on, camera in hand, its carrying cord tight around my fingers. The storm
gutters on each side of the road have bee running and partly now are filled or
filling with debris from the roadside and it’s this filling up of the otherwise
deep roadside ditches that enables vehicles some purchase when they have to
move over to allow passage to vehicles moving in the oppose direction. I have
to remember to tell you that all these minutiae are details I feel I need to
come to terms with because the story I’m writing is also in parts the true story
of what I am able to see when I walk along the road. When driving, the road and
the roadside world are seen differently, if you see what I mean and one has to
be able to appreciate both views. The driver of any vehicle must necessarily
see straight ahead most of the time on this road that is barely single-lane in
places and a dodgy almost-two-lanes in others; the walker can pause and then
see through windowed foliage what the driver may never see: glimpses past huge
clumps of bamboo, my across-the-river neighbor’s picturesque gardens in
chiaroscuro light and shade, gardens at their early morning best. The walker
also will be more aware or aware in a very different way of loose stones along
the road (we are, up here, Beyond the Bitumen and the ‘road’ is crushed
aggregate only, well pot-holed, not often graded and compacted, and seldom if
ever compacted to optimum density). Here now is a real-life example of a
childhood injury fitting into the current drafts of the new story I’m writing.
One afternoon in 1940 or 1941 I was riding my pushbike at the side of the
bitumen road in Pilgrim’s Rest (the old gold-mining village in the Transvaal).
A worker on his way home from the Central Reduction Works passed me going in
the opposite direction. Precisely as he passed opposite me one of his car tires
caught the edge of a stone on the road and propelled it violently to strike me
on the right ankle. The driver was unlikely ever to have known this, but the
shock and sudden pain was intense and I’ve remembered it for more than 70
years. At the time I was amazed that there was no break and no permanent
damage. That long-ago incident came in handy when I was drafting a short scene
in the novel, “Happiness”: one protagonist, during a rehabilitation exercise
(having been wounded in the right foot and ankle by shrapnel in Afghanistan),
is pushing a bicycle (and using it as a walking frame) along Darkwood Road
(i.e., in the road next to Earthrise) when the wheel and tire of a passing car
flings a stone that strikes him on the ankle: he stumbles and falls heavily
&c &c. I remembered well my own accident as I describe this scene in
the draft. The driver in my story who had pulled out to pass the stranger is
mother of the principal female protagonist in the story and she provides first
aid and in ensuing scenes it becomes clear that this meeting will have been a happy
one and the start of subsequent happiness between the ‘victim’ and a family
that befriends the soldier; and so forth.
On another matter entirely: a few more
words about birds this November. Each time I walk along the road I see small
finches alongside me hopping along the top strand of the barbed wire fence that
is the boundary between Darkwood Road and the long Happenstance paddock.
Perhaps this is just a coincidence; perhaps not: the little birds seem very
aware of me plodding along the dusty road and it’s as if this is a game of
sorts for the birds. Noticing this innocent scene also constitutes research if
I mention it somewhere in the draft novel. It’s just an observation, something
seen in passing that might support some of the prose I write elsewhere in a
fiction. Or it might even be serendipity? Wikipedia has something to add here: Serendipity is
an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident. Horace Walpole so
named a faculty possessed by the heroes of a tale called The Three Princes of
Serendip. Naturally I enjoy
serendipitous experiences and highly value them when I’m properly aware of
them.
While walking I pass the horses and the new foal in the
above- mentioned paddock. The foal is getting used to me stopping and gazing,
and my seeking a photo. This reminds me that I’ve written a scene set in this
paddock and it now needs some repairing (rather than redrafting) because the fictional paddock has accommodated an
aircraft taking off and flying out of the valley and I need to arrange to have
the fictional horses elsewhere. I
need hardly say that flying out of this valley from a paddock may be possible
for certain pilots flying particular machines and that such an operation would
be dangerous in the extreme: overhead power lines, high trees to 50-m,
extremely tight turns, lots of horsepower (sorry) to climb powerfully and
fast). Why not simply exclude the horses from this fictive
airfield that’s really a big paddock
and so remove all difficulties, do I hear you cry? Because, dear Reader, I want
the fiction to approximate the reality, if that’s at all possible. Yes, it’s a
novel, a fiction, and that hardly matters; nonetheless, I feel the need to
explore umpteen different bits of research to determine whether my fictional
aircraft scene has veracity (and that’s all part of the fun of writing).
Having recently included in the Diary the photo of a
flowering jacaranda, I’m also aware that the jacaranda is in my neighbour’s
paddock, rather than at Earthrise. I might be exploiting my neighbour’s tree,
paddock and the horses, so I’d better be more careful lest I’m presented with
an Invoice or a Lawsuit (and what if the story is a success, sells like
hotcakes and major movie companies fight for the right to make “Happiness” into
a Big Motion Picture)? I’ll have to watch my step…
Seriously,
though, I’m not giving away Secrets of the Craft: it seems entirely reasonable
for a writer to write what he or she knows, is familiar with to some extent and
can also describe more or less competently. On my walks I take photographs,
particularly of the river in its different moods and in the present story now
being drafted, the river (almost) as character
in the narrative plays its part, too. Believe it or not, I generally learn
something new every time I walk for exercise, observe and photograph: noticing
Potential Literary Stuff is often what I do; it’s part of my life.
A little more on birds: I’ve been pleasantly surprised
this month by a shrike thrush that daily sings close to the house. Sometimes
these grey quite large songsters potter about on the decks here hunting insects
in nooks and crannies: they sing magnificently in a strong complex voice. My
bird guide has considerable information, e.g., “The name “shrike-thrush,” a conjunction of the names of two dissimilar
families, is not an ideal one for these birds, but until a more suitable
alternative becomes popular (perhaps “gudilang” from the Aboriginal) it is
preferred here to the alternative “thrush” which suggests even more strongly an
untrue relationship. Shrike-thrushes, though plain in plumage, are remarkable
for the richness and purity of their songs. Of particular note in tis respect
is the tropical Brown-breasted (or Sandstone) Shrike-thrush, whose liquid notes
are heightened by echoes among the sandstone gorges.” There is much more,
but have a look Online if you’re curious. I think, and can’t be sure, that the
species doing a gig here is the Grey Shrike-thrush. Its voice has a: “Wide range of melodious calls based on “pip
pip pip pip ho-ee;” harsh “yorick.”
There! That’s what the book advises and it certainly rings a bell for
me. (See Peter Slater’s A Field Guide To
Australian Birds. Volume Two. Passerines. Rigby: 1979).
On an oppressively stormy Sunday afternoon, November
10, I glanced up from the keyboard toward the tail end of the rapids and the
rocky bank opposite the house: a big fluffy bird had a talon hooked through a
silvery fish and was dragging it laboriously over the stones and away from the
water. The big ball of fluffy feathers looked like a young sea eagle or osprey;
the fish looked surprisingly big and was perhaps an old perch. I grabbed the camera and craftily eased
through the front door, bent over the rail along the deck and tried to get a
picture but couldn’t without becoming obvious and interrupting both the bird’s
meal and it’s lifestyle. The fish was a good 300-mm or a foot or so long. I
couldn’t see either head or tail clearly. The bird held tightly to the fish
while glancing about and only started using it’s beak to tear off mouthfuls
when it was sure that nothing was about to disturb the kill. I was relieved
that nobody appeared for a swim: it was baking hot and the storm was imminent.
Nature red in tooth and claw and all that, it seemed.
Creative Writing
My guest
writer this month is Sharon Snir. I’ve included below an excerpt from a longer
piece of writing describing Sharon’s home.
Dog
Days
Sharon
Snir
PK arrived
as an 8-weeks old puppy and became our sixth child. For the first few years he
found more ways to escape than we thought possible. No sooner had we built a
new fence and closed another exit than he would find another way to roam the
streets and visit his canine pals. He was our ever-loving loyal companion for
fifteen years. Deeply loved. He
was my footrest for the three years I wrote my first book, The 12 Levels of Being and he allowed us to walk over and around
him as if he were a breathing rug, especially in the last year or
so.
On his last night, I
brought my pillow down and lay on the wooden kitchen floor beside him. His back
legs could no longer raise his body. I placed a towel under his rear end
because I knew he was humiliated when he could not control himself. It is
painful to see a dog in shame. Arm over his old shoulder I whispered that it
was time and he would be all right.
We all gathered around him in the morning and called our eldest
daughter, Sheli in Israel to be part of the end. The vet, a very kind and
compassionate man arrived at 8 am. Each of us thanked PK for giving us such
unconditional love. We all placed out hands on him as he turned his head as if
to say good-bye to each of us. Orly sat guard over his body wrapped in a pink
sheet. We carried him up together, covered him and said a few words. Our three
boys and Oren dug a deep hole in the back of the yard. We placed a piece of
wood near him and mourned for a few years. I missed him with all my heart.
Five years later Oren and I finally agreed we would buy another dog and
tiny sweet Chino arrived. He was my baby and I love him beyond words. Never in
my wildest imagination could I have believed I would do with him what I am
about to do. After Daddy died we
inherited Beau and after a little time of getting used to each other Chino and
Beau became dear and wonderful friends.
They sleep next to each other, eat from the same bowl, walk together and
with the exception of the times I allow them upstairs, where Chino lies on our bed
and Beau on my meditation rug, they are together all the time.
The time has come to move on. I feel ready to leave this wonderful home
but there is pain too. For Oren his need to return to Israel is obvious to
those of us who know and love him. It is time to reconnect to his spirit that
has patiently waited for his return to the land of his birth. We are going back
for a few months to see and touch and taste and feel the healing energy of
Israel. And with that decision comes the pain. Not in leaving the house or even
Australia, though leaving our granddaughter for a few months will be hard, but
having to find a new home for my Chino and his adopted brother Beau, my
father’s beloved dog who, rescued at the eleventh hour by my sister, Donna, we
inherited when Dad died. And now:
to actually hand him over to another family and say goodbye. He is an amazingly
intelligent dog: wise and very chatty. We have talked telepathically since he
was a baby and I have told him. He knows. He is not particularly happy about it
but he understands. That does not make it any easier for me. All I want to do is hold him, smell him
and tell him I love him. He came
into my life when I was not laughing very much. Oren had retired and life was
not flowing easily. I needed a dog and Chino was my fluffy angel. I called him
my substitute grandchild.
In a few weeks I will leave this home and close the door for the last
time. Will I turn around and shed a tear?
I’m sure I will. I’m sure I will look back and say ‘thank you, thank
you, thank you’ for being our sanctuary for the past twenty-three years.
As for the future: I have no idea how it will unfold, but one thing I
am sure of, it will be an adventure, a great and wonderful adventure. And I’m
ready.
Sharon Snir is an author, psychotherapist and consultant living in
Sydney, NSW, Australia
Afterword
I was completing this month’s Diary when a
tree branch broke from an old tree next to the house. The crack came from high
above, from one of the old eucalypts next to the front steps. The break was
loud and clear and was immediately followed by a loud swishing noise: either
the top or a big branch was arriving from on high, crown first. Had it fallen
butt end first the heavier part might have come through the roof close to where
I was working, but it had not and when I went out to have a look I knew the
house and I had escaped disaster by a mere couple of meters. I separated the
remains with a machete and had to cut the main portion of the branch in three
places before I could drag the remnants from the area. Very heavy green
branches 150-mm or so in diameter and falling from about 40-m will punch
through galvanized steel sheeting as if through paper. Luck or chance here
plays its part and has done for almost 30 years. Maybe I’ll be fortunate and
lucky a while longer. Being able to write at all is a blessing and one’s
writing capabilities benefit from good health and the writer being more or less
in one piece. I always reflect solemnly and gratefully on near misses because
I’m attempting to publish such writings as I can whilst the going’s good.
Another fast month begins to
dwindle and summer rushes in. The weather now is atypical or dramatically new:
it once was very different here in spring. I’m assuming that there will never
again in our lifetimes be ‘steady, predictable and quite ordinary weather in
each season.’ As much as I admire our meteorologists and their fine abilities
to accurately forecast the weather, I’m hoping for even more accuracy in the
future, viz, one or two minutes warnings on my computer screen that lightning
strikes are imminent in the area where I live. I write this tongue in cheek, of
course, but wouldn’t it be great if such a facility were available to computer
drivers? This month the power has several times failed and then come on again
within a couple of seconds; but a couple of times the power has remained off
for the more expected extended period, once when I was drafting the story
mentioned above. Scary weather is no accident and Global Warming and Climate
Change are well and truly upon us. And wouldn’t it be salutary if our
politicians could determinedly address these phenomena positively, rather than
behaving like mad babies? Fortunately this Mac is able to save what’s being
worked on (though I sometimes lose ten or 20 words I hadn’t managed to save
before lightning zapped the electricity supply or infrastructure). Losing a
long multi-chapter file would be a very bad experience and not at all good for
one’s health. Remember how that kind of thing happened only a few years ago and
happened to a variety of computers?
We can but hope.
The cicadas have been tuning up
and practising their repertoires. The eucalypt barks have been splitting and
clattering to ground almost all month: the shedding now seems complete and the
trunks shine pristinely in the Wet. The local birds sing as beautifully as ever
(whilst putting up with severe thunderstorms, lightning strikes and heavy
showers). Darkwood Road and its verges continue slowly to be improved and
drivers and riders daily dodge potholes and loose stones and pray for their
windscreens. And everything changes; it always has and always will.
With best wishes and Season’s
Greetings to all Diary Readers wherever you may be across our stormy planet,
from Don.
